Paris Wills is a dreamer. His father always said he got it from his mom, an artist who was unlike any other. Her virtue was painting, and Paris' is poetry. No matter where he is, Paris finds inspiration for his poems.
In the summer after his sophom...
I can almost make out my reflection in the dirty murky water churning under the crimson red creek bridge. The paint is even worse than I remember, with flakes of burgundy flying off the steel beams and onto the road. There's hardly a car on the road, there never is. The road doesn't lead anywhere important. Nobody finds the road significant enough to drive on, just like nobody finds me significant enough to live.
Even Grayson hates me now. I saw the way he looked at me when I tried to kiss him, the way he writhed at the taste of my lips. This will give him a chance - a chance to fall in love with somebody who isn't broken beyond repair. He'll be able to experience the beauty of life without a tragic, melancholy black cloud floating over his head. This is my gift to him. I'm unlocking the shackles around his legs so he can run toward hope and opportunity and the promise that good things can happen. I'm too far gone to obtain that promise. Maybe some people aren't meant to live long. Maybe they've already experienced too much of what life has to offer - too much of the horrible occurrences that leave so many bruised and broken.
I still remember standing on this metal beam once before, wondering how cold the water would feel. It was raining that day, the droplets pricking at my skin with a bitter chill. I imagined the water below the bridge wouldn't feel much worse. It was choppier then, angry at the rainwater attacking its domain. It'll be harder this time, but not impossible. I've weighed down my pockets and shoes with as many rocks as I could, hoping it would help.
The sun is waving at me on the horizon, saying goodbye for one final time. For most, they'll see hundreds, maybe even thousands of sunsets in the near future. I'm sure Grayson may even see a million sunsets before he dies. I can see the spirit in his eyes. The Universe, God, or maybe something in between - whatever it is - will certainly have a difficult time taking Grayson out of this world. He'll want to experience everything this world has to offer, and probably will experience almost everything. He needs to experience these things - his soul is a wanderer, begging to discover the fundamental qualities of life. It would be unfair for me to starve him like that, for me to put my own unsolvable problems ahead of his own dreams.
I watch the last bit of hope dip into the horizon, the last bit of light shutting off. The hand of God has flipped the switch. The stars have already started to materialize in the night, and darkness clouds the last bit of promise in the once hopeful sunshine. I even feel a droplet of water on my shoulder, and soon delicate showers make their descent from the dimly lit regions of the sky.
Grayson doesn't want to die. He wants to bathe in color for as long as he can. He'll keep going and going until there's absolutely nothing left inside of him. As for me, I've felt empty for so long I can't even remember a time I wasn't. There's no energy left inside of me - there's nothing I can do to keep going.
All there's left to do is jump.
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